The Terra-Cotta Dog (31 page)

“Would you like something to eat?”

“You're very kind,” said the old man after a moment's hesitation. “But just a small salad, perhaps some lean cheese, and a glass of wine.”

“Let's go inside, I've set the table.”

“Will you eat with me?”

Montalbano had a knot in the pit of his stomach, but above all he felt strangely moved.

“I've already eaten,” he lied.

“Then, if you don't mind, could you set me a place out here?”

Rizzitano had used the Sicilian verb
conzare
, meaning “to set the table”—like an outsider trying his best to speak the local language.

“What made me realize you'd figured almost everything out,” Rizzitano said while eating slowly, “was an article in the
Corriere
. I can't watch television anymore, you know; all I see are shadows that hurt my eyes.”

“TV hurts my eyes, too, and my vision is excellent,” said Montalbano.

“But I already knew that you had found Lisetta and Mario. I have two sons; one's an engineer, the other's a teacher like me, both married. One of my daughters-in-law is a rabid
leghista
, an insufferable imbecile. Actually, she's very fond of me, but she considers me an exception, since she thinks all southerners are criminals or, in the best of cases, lazy. She never misses an opportunity to say to me: You know, Papa, down in your parts—for her, ‘my parts' extend from Sicily up to and including Rome—in your parts so-and-so was murdered, so-and-so was kidnapped, so-and-so was arrested, so-and-so planted a bomb . . . Well, one day she said: In your own town, inside a cave, they found two young people murdered fifty years ago . . .”

“How's that?” Montalbano interjected. “Does your family know you're from Vigàta?”

“Of course they know. However, I never told anyone, not even my wife, rest her soul, that I still owned property in Vigàta. I said my parents and most of my relatives had been wiped out during the bombing. In no way could anybody connect me with the corpses in the Crasticeddru; they didn't know that it was on a piece of my land. But when I heard the news, I got sick, with a high fever. Everything started coming violently back to me. But I was telling you about the article in the
Corriere
. It said that a police inspector in Vigàta, the same one who'd found the bodies, had not only succeeded in identifying the two young victims, but had also learned that the terra-cotta dog's name was Kytmyr. Well, that made me certain you'd managed to find my university thesis. And so I knew you were sending me a message. I lost some time persuading my sons to let me come here alone; I told them I wanted to revisit, one last time before I die, the place where I was born and lived as a boy.”

Montalbano was still not convinced on this point, so he went back to it.

“So everybody, in your home, knew that you were from Vigàta?”

“Why should I have hidden it? I never changed my name, either, and have never had false documents.”

“You mean you were able to disappear without ever wanting to disappear?”

“Exactly. A person is found when somebody really needs to find him, or really sets his mind to it . . . In any case, you must believe me when I say that I've lived my life with my real first and last names; I entered competitions and even won, I taught, I got married, had children, and I have grandchildren who bear my name. Now I'm retired, and my pension is made out to: Calogero Rizzitano, birthplace Vigàta.”

“But you must at least have written to, say, the town hall, or the university, to request the necessary documents?”

“Of course. I did write to them, and they sent me what I needed. You mustn't make a mistake of historical perspective, Inspector. At the time, nobody was looking for me.”

“But you didn't even claim the money the city government owed you for the expropriation of your land.”

“That was precisely the point. I'd had no contact with Vigàta for thirty years, since the older you get, the less you need documents from your birthplace. But the documents required for the expropriation money, those were a little risky. Somebody might have remembered me then. Whereas I had turned my back on Sicily long before that. I didn't want—I still don't want—to have anything to do with it. If there existed some kind of special device that could remove the blood circulating in my veins, I'd be happy.”

“Would you like to go for a walk along the beach?” Montalbano asked when his guest had finished eating.

They'd been walking for five minutes, the old man leaning on his cane but holding onto Montalbano with his other arm, when Rizzitano asked:

“Would you tell me how you were able to identify Lisetta and Mario? And how did you figure out that I was involved? Forgive me, but walking and talking at the same time is very taxing for me.”

As Montalbano was telling him the whole story, now and then the old man would twist his mouth as if to say that was not how it went.

Montalbano then felt Rizzitano's arm weighing heavier on his. Wrapped up in his own words, he hadn't noticed that the old man was tired from the walk.

“Shall we go back?”

They sat down again on the bench on the veranda.

“Well,” said Montalbano. “Why don't you tell me how things really went?”

“Yes, of course, that's why I'm here. But it costs me a great deal of effort.”

“I'll try to spare you the effort. Tell you what: I'll say what I think happened, and you correct me if I'm wrong.”

“All right.”

“Well, one day in early July, 1943, Lisetta and Mario came to your house at the foot of the Crasto, where at that moment you were living alone. Lisetta had run away from Serradifalco to rejoin her boyfriend, Mario Cunich, a sailor from the
Pacinotti
, a mother ship that was supposed to leave a few days later—”

The old man raised his hand and the inspector stopped.

“Excuse me, but that's not what happened. And I remember everything, down to the smallest details. The memory of the aged becomes clearer and clearer with time. It has no pity. On the evening of July 6, around nine o'clock, I heard someone knocking desperately at the door. I went to see who it was, and there was Lisetta, who had run away. She'd been raped.”

“On her way from Serradifalco to Vigàta?”

“No. By her father, the night before.”

Montalbano didn't feel like opening his mouth.

“And that was only the beginning,” said the old man. “The worst was yet to come. Lisetta had confided to me that, now and then, her father—Uncle Stefano, as I used to call him, since we were related—used to take certain liberties with her. One day, Stefano Moscato, who, not long before, had come out of prison and been evacuated to Serradifalco with the rest of the family, discovered the letters that Mario had sent to his daughter. He told her he wanted to talk to her about something important, then took her out to the country, threw the letters in her face, beat her, and raped her. Lisetta was . . . she'd never been with a man before. But she didn't create a scandal; she had very strong nerves. The next day she simply ran away and came to see me. I was like a brother to her, more than a brother. The following morning I went into town to tell Mario that Lisetta had come. Mario showed up early that afternoon. I left them alone and went for a walk in the country. When I got back home around seven that evening, Lisetta was alone. Mario had returned to his ship. We made some supper, and then we went to the window to watch the fireworks—that's what they looked like—of the Allied strike on Vigàta. Lisetta finally went upstairs to sleep, in my bedroom. I stayed downstairs and read a book by the light of an oil lamp. That was when . . .”

Rizzitano broke off, exhausted, and heaved a long sigh.

“Would you like a glass of water?”

The old man seemed not to have heard him.

“. . . that was when I heard someone shouting in the distance. Actually, at first it sounded to me like a wailing animal, a howling dog. But in fact it was Uncle Stefano, calling his daughter. The sound of that voice made my hair stand on end, because it was the agonized, agonizing cry of a cruelly abandoned lover who was suffering and screaming out his pain like an animal; it was not the voice of a father looking for his daughter. It upset me terribly. I opened the door. Outside was total darkness. I shouted that I was alone in the house. I said: Why come looking for your daughter at my house? Then suddenly there he was in front of me, as though catapulted. He ran inside like a madman, trembling, insulting me and Lisetta. I tried to calm him and approached him. He punched me in the face and I fell backward, stunned. Finally I noticed he had a pistol in his hand. He said he was going to kill me. Then I made a mistake: I retorted that he only wanted his daughter so he could rape her again. He shot at me but missed; he was too agitated. Then he took better aim, but another shot exploded in the room. I used to keep a loaded shotgun in my room, near the bed. Lisetta had taken it and fired at her father from the top of the stairs. Struck in the shoulder, Uncle Stefano staggered, and his weapon fell from his hand. Coldly, Lisetta ordered him to get out or she would finish him off. I have no doubt she would have done so without hesitation. Uncle Stefano looked his daughter long in the eye, then began to whimper with his mouth closed, and not only, I suspect, because of his wound. Then he turned his back and left. I bolted all the doors and windows. I was terrified, and it was Lisetta who gave me back my courage and strength. We remained barricaded inside the next morning as well. Around three o'clock Mario arrived, we told him what had happened, and he decided to spend the night with us. He didn't want to leave us alone there, since Lisetta's father would surely be back. Around midnight a horrific bombing raid was launched over Vigàta, but Lisetta remained calm because her Mario was with her. On the morning of July ninth, I went to Vigàta to see if the house we owned in town was still standing. I strongly advised Mario not to open the door for anyone and to keep the shotgun within reach.”

He stopped.

“My throat is dry.”

Montalbano ran into the kitchen and returned with a glass and a pitcher of cold water. The old man took the glass in both hands; his whole body was shaking. The inspector felt keenly sorry.

“If you'd like to rest awhile, we can resume later.”

The old man shook his head.

“If I stop now, I'll never resume. I stayed in Vigàta until late afternoon. The house hadn't been destroyed, but it was a tremendous mess: doors and windows blown out by the shock waves, upended furniture, broken glass. I cleaned up as best I could, and that kept me busy till evening. My bicycle was gone from the entranceway, stolen. So I headed back to the Crasto on foot. It was an hour's walk. Actually I had to walk by the side of the main road because there were so many military vehicles, Italian and German, moving in both directions. The moment I arrived at the top of the dirt road that led to my house, two American fighter-bombers appeared overhead and started machine-gunning and dropping fragmentation bombs. The planes were flying very low to the ground and roaring like thunder. I threw myself into a ditch and almost immediately was struck very hard in the back by something that I first thought was a large stone sent flying by an exploding bomb. In fact it was a military boot, with the foot still inside, severed just above the ankle. I sprang to my feet and started running up the driveway, but I had to stop to vomit. My legs were giving out, and I fell two or three times, as behind me the noise of the airplanes began to fade and I could hear the cries and screams and prayers more clearly, and the orders being shouted between the burning trucks. The instant I set foot in my house, I heard two shots ring out upstairs, quickly, one right after the other. Uncle Stefano, I thought, had managed to get inside the house and carry out his revenge. Near the door there was a big iron bar that was used to bolt it shut. I grabbed it and went upstairs without a sound. My bedroom door was open; a man was standing just inside with his back to me, still holding the revolver in his hand.”

The old man, who until this point hadn't once looked up at the inspector, now stared him straight in the eye.

“In your opinion, do I have the face of a murderer?”

“No,” said Montalbano. “And if you're referring to the man in the room with the gun in his hand, you can set your mind at rest. You acted out of necessity, in self-defense.”

“Someone who kills a man is still someone who kills a man. The legal formulas come later. What counts is the will of the moment. And I wanted to kill that man, no matter what he had done to Lisetta and Mario. So I raised the rod and dealt him a blow to the nape of the neck with all my might, hoping to shatter his skull. He fell forward, revealing the scene on the bed. There were Mario and Lisetta, naked, clutching one another, in a sea of blood. They must have been making love when they were surprised by the bombs falling so close to the house, and then embraced each other like that out of fear. There was nothing more to be done for them. Something perhaps could still have been done for the man on the floor behind me, who was gasping his last. With a kick I turned him faceup. He was some flunky of Uncle Stefano's, a cheap thug. Systematically, with the iron bar, I began to beat his head to a pulp. And then I went crazy. I started running from room to room, singing. Have you ever killed anyone?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“You say ‘unfortunately,' which means you felt no satisfaction. What I felt was not so much satisfaction as joy. I felt happy; I sang, as I said. Then I collapsed in a chair, overwhelmed by the horror, horrified with myself. I hated myself. They had managed to turn me into a murderer, and I hadn't been able to resist. On the contrary, I was pleased to have done it. The blood inside me was infected, no matter how hard I might try to cleanse it with reason, education, culture, and whatever else you want. It was the blood of the Rizzitanos, of my grandfather and my father, of men the honest people in town preferred not to mention. Men like them, even worse than them. Then, in my delirium, a possible solution appeared. If Mario and Lisetta were to go on sleeping, then all this horror had never happened. It was a nightmare, a bad dream. And so . . .”